Failed Ode to My Penis

O storm wand!

O snow dragon!

O seething traveler

with your sack slung

over your shoulder!

Sack of treasures!

Sack of miracles!

Wrinklestretchy planetbag!

It is time to try

to make a praise for you.

A big old praise

for the little old Penis.

O Penis! You go

with me everywhere,

like a depressed clown

hanging off a cliff.

If you were a musical

you might not have

all the production value

of a Les Miserables

but you would make me

just as sad. Alas,

my cranky Javert,

it seems we shan’t find

who we’re searching for.

I’ll remain forever

uneasy with lust,

getting up for a snack

when the actors

start kissing, wondering

if desire makes me

a monster, the instrument

of an organ’s gory history.

Yes, I long to penetrate

the mystery & am ashamed.

I long for an exuberant

coupling with the Name

& am ashamed.

My mother inquires—

do I wish for a child?

I attend my friend’s

one-year-old’s birthday

& look, everybody’s

got them: toddlers

& spouses, avocado

stains on their blouses,

stories about how

they used to think

they knew what being

tired meant. O praise

& bless & exalt. Of course

I wish for a child. I play

with the ones at the party

& all my friends

gather around to tell me

what a wonderful

uncle I’m going to make.